


Why You Should Always Check For a Pulse

by miasmatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Cabin Fic, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In between the rough and the cold, two men descend on their prey. This is their story. </p>
<p>(A story in which John and Sherlock chase a killer who hunts them back, which ends up with folks getting hurt, some of them badly. But John is a BAMF and a doctor, after all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hunt and the Hunted

Picture this: A valley and a lake, or rather, a procession of lakes nestled into a wide, deep gorge, lined by sheer granite walls, connected via wide waterfalls that put Yosemite to shame. You don't realize how wide this valley is or how big these lakes are until you realize that speck down there, that little red one, is a boat. The mountains hem them in, these lakes, and the few tough trees and the bog surrounding it look picturesque, but the terrain is hard to negotiate. Especially now, in early winter, when the light is dim and wanes quickly, and the ground is half frozen and treacherous, half mud. This is the territory of lemmings and big-footed hares and of the wide-pawed cats that roam these mountains. It's not for humans - that is later, in early spring, when the skiing is good, or in summer, when fish can be caught. The land rises from lake to lake as you hike upwards, every incline steep, some almost vertical, taxing in summer, a nightmare now, in early winter. This is Norway, steep and rough, and it is out to kill you. Behind the last lake and the last leg-breaking field of boulders lies Sweden, deceptively more mellow, wide soft valleys and hills and grass and lichen, now stifled underneath snow that will get deeper and deeper and colder and colder the further you move east. That is the land of the moose and the wolf, and it is out to kill you. It is a question of choosing your death, really.  
In between the rough and the cold, two men descend on their prey. This is their story.

"He took the path to the right", Sherlock hissed. John nodded. The trail their quarry had left was hard to miss, footsteps imprinted in black sludge on a thin snow cover. John looked over to his friend, who crouched behind a lichen-covered boulder, tan jacket and dark green backpack deliberately smudged with mud and blending into the rocks. "Almost too easy", John whispered. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "We missed something. We must have. What did we miss?" John tried to loosen his grip on the pistol a notch and worked his fingers, he couldn't risk cramping up. "Maybe he's just desperate." Sherlock's eyes were as grey as the boulders and almost as stony as they fixed on his friend in a familiar gaze of fond contempt. "No, John. Carlyle killed two hikers and flayed them to leave a message. That's not someone who's desperate. That's a man on a rampage." He surveyed the terrain in front of them and repeated: "What did we miss..."

Panting, but trying not to breathe too loudly. Careful not to slip and send an avalanche of pebbles downhill in a clatter. Slowly, but steadily, climbing up the path, the backpack heavy now. Creeping up a hillside that immediately dips into another small valley just to rise again, steeper this time. These little inclines and detours are what wears them out, and their foe has the advantage of the higher ground. 

"See anything?"  
"Nothing."  
Sherlock's eyes swept the area while John tried to scout the trail with his binoculars. The trail was still easy to see and vanished between the fir trees on the other of the dip. "He's still leading a merry chase. No way he could have doubled back as far as I could see." That Carlyle would double back and ambush them was John's biggest worry. But the terrain didn't lend itself to such endeavours. There was only one trail up this mountain. He stowed the binoculars. Sherlock nodded, his mop of black hair almost escaping the woollen cap. He flashed an exhilarated grin at John, eyes blazing, clearly enjoying the hunt. "Off we go."  
They started down the hill, dashed across the open ground, frantic for cover. A stop by the tree line to catch their breath. Here, the climbing started in earnest, pine and spruce holding on for dear life between boulders as big as trucks. The marks Carlyle had left were unmistakeable, a handhold there, a foot here. This being a major tourist attraction in the summer, the trail was equipped with rungs and a cable, held in place by rusty bars. Otherwise, in this weather, it wouldn't have been accessible without proper climbing equipment. "Should have brought a harness and a proper Y lanyard", John muttered, but Sherlock, backpack and all, was already halfway up before John could finish that thought. The trail crawled up between boulders and pine for almost two hours, broken only by a landing, maybe two meters across, perched precariously above a waterfall that would have, under normal circumstances, been breathtaking. Today and in this weather, it was just massive, wet, and so loud both men looked around nervously, fearing an ambush, while catching their breath and taking sips from their water bottles.

Winded, John made it to the top of the via ferrata and dragged himself up next to Sherlock, still within the relative safety of the sparse forest. In front of them, the trees abruptly gave way to a wide boggy meadow without any cover at all, and the trail, showing obvious use, crossed the river by means of a fairly new suspension bridge. You had to hand it to these Norwegians, John thought, they did know what to do with that oil money. And they obviously liked their summer houses.  
Of course, Sherlock showed no sign of exhaustion, staring intently at the hut by yet another lake, this one bigger, calm and deep, clearly a prime destination for hikers and fishermen. Two good-sized huts sat next to the lake, one smaller, the other one bigger and newer with the unmistakeable blue roof that promised solar panels and electricity. Sherlock handed John an energy bar, but took only a sip of water himself. "Pass me the binos", he whispered. John complied, secretly glad to exchange the binos for food. Hiking with Sherlock, he had discovered, was a lesson in starvation.  
"Both boarded up for winter, the bigger one with the mark of the Norwegian national park agency. The smaller one is private. Fishing. There's a wet stain on the porch of the smaller one. I'd say that's where our man is. Ready?" Sherlock was clearly having fun. John swallowed the last bit of the abominable energy bar and grabbed his friend's arm. "Sherlock, wait", he hissed. "Look at that. Look! No cover, not a bit. Clear line of fire from both huts. That bridge? That's a trap. That's like shooting fish in a barrel."  
"Not sure he has a gun", Sherlock mused, "He killed those hikers with a knife."  
"Sherlock! Please, we need to think this through."  
Sherlock reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the hut and looked at John, tan jacket and mud and all, short but tough, finally seeing him for what he was, a soldier, a professional, someone who had trained for situations like these. He relented. "What do you propose?"  
"You mean, apart from leaving this to the police?"  
From the way Sherlock set his jaw, John knew he'd lost this argument already. "Okay. Apart from leaving this to the police: There's a faint, unused trail leading along the tree line to an outcrop in the cliff over there, see? I wonder what that is. Maybe a boat house? There must be a boat house up here."  
The slap on his back nearly sent John reeling. "John! You are brilliant! Well, maybe not brilliant per se, but certainly useful in some situations. Like these. Outdoorsy situations. Of course! Of course there would be a boathouse. No boats up by the main huts, they're too far from the water, possibly because of the gnats, certainly because of the damp. But where else would they keep their boats? There must be boats, and a boat house. And then, we'll cross the lake and approach the hut from behind. Wonderful! Come on!"  
"Will you keep it down?"  
But Sherlock was already gone. Despite his obvious enthusiasm and glee and his professed (relative) ignorance regarding outdoorsy things, he moved astoundingly quietly and swiftly, all gangly limbs and unruly hair, melting into the forest like a lynx. John followed suit, staying within cover as best as he could. 


	2. The Boat House

As they rounded the corner, a boat house came indeed into view. A rickety shed on the waterline, closed for the winter. "You think there's still a boat in there?"  
"Only one way to find out."  
"Sherlock! Wait! Damn."  
John dumped his backpack and drew the handgun while Sherlock sprinted ahead, now in clear view of the huts on the other side of the lake where Carlyle had potentially laid an ambush. Any time now, a shot would ring, and John would see his friend falter and fall... He gritted his teeth, stooped down and dashed for the dubious cover of the overhanging roof of the boat house. Panting more from fear than exertion, he crashed into Sherlock, shoving him roughly to cover, then cowering between his friend and the other side of the lake, gun in hand. "Sherlock. Stay down. Seriously."  
"Where's your backpack?"  
"Left it by the rocks. Shut up. I'll go in first."  
"Surely you don't think Carlyle..."  
"I'll go in. Stay down."  
The door wasn't locked and opened easily. John's pulse hammered in his temples, but he knew that feeling, and a small part of him revelled in it. Gun drawn, he peered into the dark boathouse, letting his eyes adjust, all too aware that he'd cast an unmistakeable silhouette to anyone inside. Nothing moved. He stepped inside, one sidestep taking him into the hut with his back to the wall. Two small boats lay on dry dock there, simple rowing boats by the looks of them, one a garish red distinguishable even in the dim of the boathouse. Nobody here. John relaxed and took a step forward.  
And crashed through the floorboards that, he mused even as he fell, must have been cut precisely to have this effect, to give under the full weight of someone, and to send him crashing into the crude spikes that lay below. A horrible, ghastly trap. John didn't shriek as the pointed stick (a pointed stick, such a disgrace, something from a Monty Python episode, really) ripped through his jumper and lodged itself into his shoulder, effectively pinning him to the pit. He just gave something in between a hiss and a moan that, to him, sounded far worse than a cry, and like far more damage. In the brief respite from the pain that was to come, he noticed two things: He was still alive, and another spike had travelled up his pant leg but apparently only cut his leg, not speared it. Then the pain set in, and he groaned.  
"John?"  
Ah, Sherlock. He had to warn him. "Sherlock. It's a trap. Stay where you are. I need... I need your knife."  
"John, what - oh God."  
"Don't come any closer. There could be more."  
"What -"  
"I have to cut this thing off. Can't pull it out."  
"Okay." Sherlock's voice dropped in pitch, and he sounded calmer. "What do you want me to do?"  
"Just toss me your knife."  
"That's not going to work. You'll pass out."  
"You're not coming in here."  
"John..."  
Now the pain started in earnest, and he felt his legs give. The spike in his shoulder moved a little deeper, and John gasped. The next thing he knew was a gangly figure, carefully lowering itself into the pit next to him, meticulously avoiding the spikes. Sherlock's face was all angles and worry. "Quick. I'm sure he's coming for us, trying to finish us off. Where do I cut?"  
"As close as you can to - me."  
"God, John."  
"Just do it."  
Sherlock started sawing, and the pain almost made John pass out. "Thankfully, he didn't have much time to prepare", Sherlock said conversationally while sawing on the spike, "He simply sharpened a few branches and stuck them into the ground below the boat house. You flattened most of them when you fell on them. Imagine the damage he could have done with better tools and more time. This one is not very thick." The spike came free, and the relief John felt was almost as unbearable as the pain. Quickly, Sherlock cut his pants leg and checked his leg. "That's not too bad, just a long scratch. Bleeding has stopped."  
Sherlock groped for a bandage in the first aid kit he had brought when John saw movement on the other side of the boat house. Another door, of course, there would be a second door on that side of the shed. That's why there was a trap, but no footprints on this side. He had a strange feeling of déjà vu as the door opened and filled with the silhouette of a big, muscular man capable of killing two hikers with a knife. Pain forgotten, he dove down, scooped up the gun he had dropped, shoved Sherlock out of the way with his injured arm, pain exploding in his chest, aimed, and shot without another thought. The figure bellowed a muffled cry and vanished. Sherlock, unfazed, dropped the kit, pulled himself up and darted out the door after the figure John had shot at, returning maybe a minute later.  
"He's hurt, too", he announced. "But not dead." Sherlock smirked while he used a bandage to hold the severed spike securely in place, knowing John might bleed out if they removed it now. "Guess a spike in your shoulder does affect your aim after all." He clapped John on the unhurt shoulder, angling for a grin John couldn't produce right now.  
It proved difficult to leave the boat house with only his right arm intact, and Sherlock had to give him a boost up. Outside, John noticed the blood on the ground where he had - hopefully - shot Carlyle.  
"What now?"  
"Let me just catch my breath a bit", John panted, swallowing hard. He knew he didn't have much time until the pain, shock and blood loss and, later, infection incapacitated him. Until then, they needed to either evade Carlyle, apprehend or kill him, and get down this mountain to their car, to a hospital, and safety. First things first. "Can you see him?" Sherlock had broken out the binoculars and was scanning the area.  
"There's blood on the ground all the way to the bridge."  
"Then let's go after him while we still have the advantage."  
"Can you-"  
"Yes."  
John pushed himself off the wall and started towards the bridge, crouched, gun ready. Sherlock followed. They took cover behind a boulder next to the bridge, surveying, Sherlock indicating the blood on the bridge and the trail leading to the shack.  
"He's in there. I think the time for subtlety is over. Don't you think?"  
John nodded and moved. The bridge was as exposed as he had feared, but no shot rang, none fell. 

The door to the shack was wide open, and this was where the blood trail led them.  
"Careful."  
John nodded, he didn't trust himself to speak. If he spoke, he'd probably faint. He set his jaw and approached, peeked in, lifted one finger to indicate one person. Sherlock followed close behind. John was first into the shack, and the light of a single oil lamp illuminated two things: a probably antique, rusty bear trap right on front of him, open and triggered, and the slack form of Carlyle slumped on the floor behind it. "Trap", John mouthed and regretted it immediately as nausea washed over him. He gripped the gun harder and didn't let Carlyle out of his sights while Sherlock dragged the bear trap out of the way by its chain. Both men approached, leery for more traps, John's gun trained on the killer. But Carlyle didn't move, and the bear trap remained the only nasty surprise. Carlyle was dead.  
"Good shot after all", Sherlock commented, indicating the bullet wound in Carlyle's upper left chest. "A testimony to his stamina he made it this far at all."  
John's answer was simpler - he passed out on the floor. 


	3. Of Knives and Men

The door finally gave, and Sherlock dragged his friend in, supported him with one shoulder while he half carried him through the door, dumping him unceremoniously on the floor before he turned to close the door. The thick bar slid in place, and he took a moment to assess the situation. John hurt, probably unconscious, a nondescript hut in the mountains of northern Norway, of all places. No mobile reception, of course. But the cabin was nice. Two rooms with bunk beds, a big living area that doubled as kitchen, a fireplace-and-hearth, a table for twelve and many chairs around it, and two benches that doubled as cots if one had that kind of imagination. Electricity (on a sunnier day). A loft with several mattresses and bedding. All clean and in good shape, not exactly your friendly holiday home, but shelter. First things first. He found matches and an oil lamp conveniently placed by the door and lit the lamp, then he kneeled by his friend.  
John's face was very pale, but the bandage they had improvised held, and he wasn't bleeding out at the moment. That was good, Sherlock thought. Wasn't it?  
"Hey, John."  
"Hmm?" He didn't open his eyes.  
"John. Wake up. Need your help."  
"Ah. God. Yes. Sure." Sherlock helped John stand and then steered him to one of the cots, where John sat down and leaned against the wall.  
"John. Tell me what to do."  
John gathered his wits as best as he could. "Let me see. Get the jacket off. And the jumper."  
"I'll have to cut it off."  
"Doesn't matter."  
Sherlock peeled the jacket off carefully, then used the knife to cut the jumper and John's shirt. Beneath that, the end of a  
sharpened stick protruded angrily from John's torso. Sherlock didn't say anything, he just looked at it, which John found vaguely disconcerting. With his good hand, John prodded the area. "I don't think it hit anything major. Doesn't feel like it's very deep."  
A long pause.  
"Well. You're the doctor."  
"I'm just trying to keep spirits up, Sherlock. Count your blessings and the like."  
"What are the options?"  
"Helicopter and evac?"  
"Not until I get somewhere with mobile reception. Can you hike?"  
"Not like this, no."  
The two looked at each other, thinking, weighing the options, discarding options that meant discomfort for the other, brows creased, fingers stapled.  
"You have to get this out first. Then go and find mobile reception. Hope I don't bleed to death."  
Sherlock balked visibly. "That doesn't sound like a viable option. And I seem to remember you telling me not to remove any objects-"  
"It can't stay in there for days. We're talking days until help arrives, aren't we."  
"I should have gone into that boathouse first then, John. You're the surgeon."  
"There's not much to it. There's a pot by the fireplace, we'll need hot water. Some cloth we can cook. Fire, of course. Something sharp. If you can find tweezers, that'll be great. Cut here, and it'll come out. See? That bluish mass? That's the spike."  
Sherlock saw, and John saw Sherlock blanch.  
"Think you can do that?"  
"John, please. I don't think this is such a good idea any more."  
"Let me know when you have a better one. Until then, it's this."

It didn't take Sherlock long to build a fire in the hearth, and he found a few serviceable towels. These he cooked together with a sharp skinning knife and several metal pins he thought might double as tweezers until he thought they must be pretty sterile, though not necessarily very clean... Judging from the dirt in and around John's wound, he doubted it would matter. They needed a hospital, and soon. Tomorrow, he'd find an elevated location and try to send a signal, and then...  
"Sherlock."  
He realized he'd been stalling and gathered his supplies, setting them down on the table next to John, whose colour really wasn't very good. Looking down at his makeshift utensils, Sherlock started to doubt their decision. He set his jaw and looked at John, whose face was a mask of resignation Sherlock, so far, knew only from finding the fridge depleted of milk once again.  
"This is going to work. Just think of me as one of your corpses."  
"God, John."  
"Sorry."

The spike came out easily enough, but digging for the fragments proved harder than Sherlock had anticipated. At some point, John simply passed out, and Sherlock marvelled at the ingenuity of a body that simply shut down when pain became too much to handle. After what seemed like hours, but was more likely a few minutes, he thought he had it all, cleaned the wound, and dressed it as well as he could. Which wasn't very good. Then, he cleaned the long gash on his leg. John still leaned against the wall and came to when Sherlock wiped the blood and grime off his chest.  
"Made it", he said.  
"Yes."  
"Well done."  
Sherlock searched John's voice and face for any trace of sarcasm, but couldn't find any. Only infinite exhaustion, pain and - relief. And the ghost of a smile.  
"Don't you want to lay down? You'd be more comfortable that way."  
"Let me just sit here for a moment."  
Sherlock found a blanket of soft brown wool and wrapped it around his friend as well as he could without moving him. There was no way he could put his mangled jumper back on, the blanket would have to do. With a resignation that wasn't like him at all, John let Sherlock wrap the soft wool around him and closed his eyes.  
"Are you okay?"  
"Yes. Just tired."  
"I'll fix us something to eat."  
"Oh dear God, have mercy."  
Sherlock smiled at hearing even that little bit of snark, and went to rummage in his backpack for something edible.

"What do we do about the body?"  
"Carlyle?"  
"Obviously. You're not quite dead yet."  
"Ha."  
"Seriously. Shouldn't I examine him? I could take him into the second bedroom-"  
"If you do that, I'll go and sleep in the boathouse."  
"Oh. That settles it then."

"I'll go and search for a cellphone signal tomorrow. At first light."  
"Good."  
"Won't you have any of this magnificent ramen noodle... soup? It's full of salt and gluten and delicious after an exciting day in the mountains."  
"No. Thank you."  
"Your loss."

"Maybe some trail mix? Nuts and berries! And M&Ms. Who puts M&Ms in their trail mix?"  
"Nah."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Quite."

"Water then. We're out of tea, but the water is nice and cold."  
When no reply came, Sherlock looked over to his friend and saw him still slumped against the wall, eyes closed, very pale. A trickle of blood appeared on John's hand, the one that appeared from underneath the blanket. Alarmed, he yanked the blanket off his unconscious friend and found his worst fears confirmed: The wound bled profusely, had already suppurated through the bandage and trickled down his friend's arm. He laid him down and removed the bandage. The trickle of blood was steady, but slow, slower than it would have been if a major vessel or an artery had been nicked. That was good. A bit of pressure would staunch the wound. He applied a new bandage and tied it as tight as he dared, applying pressure and tying John's arm to his chest as support. Halfway through, John came to again, lying down helping him regain his consciousness. "t's good. Where did you learn that?"  
"I read your books when I'm bored."  
"Oh. Ha."  
"No. Seriously. I do. Don't move. You shouldn't move at all."  
Sherlock could see how that would be a problem, judging from the state of the cot. He quickly gathered the covers off the other cot, dragged two mattresses and bedding down from the loft and laid it all out in front of the fireplace, creating a wider, softer bed for his friend. John watched wearily from the other cot. "Come on. This'll do nicely." Carefully, he coaxed him over to the bed in front of the fireplace. 

John realized two things: It was warmer here, and it was comfortable enough he didn't have to squirm. He lay down on his back, mindful of his shoulder (another shoulder wound, how appropriate) and fell into an exhausted sleep.

During the night, two things happened. The weather turned much, much colder than Sherlock had feared, and John turned much, much warmer than Sherlock had anticipated. That John would develop an infection wasn't exactly a surprise, but the harsh weather was indeed. Outside, snow fell crisp and harsh over a frozen, still landscape. Sherlock decided to haul in more firewood, and he brought in bouts of cold wind on his trips outside. John lay and shivered, and if Sherlock found that if he had a heart, it broke at the sight. He stoked the fire and kept it going well, but the hut wasn't built for winter or a half-naked man underneath a home-spun blanket. And all the while, the sick man on the pile of mattresses and blankets suffered silently.

"You're not doing too well."  
"It's true what they say."  
"Excuse me?"  
"You are a genius."  
Sherlock smiled at the weak insult and fed a few more logs to the fire, methodically building a fire that would burn slower, but last several hours. The hearth was built more for show than for warmth. A few meters from its front, the room was icy cold, and whatever he did, he couldn't warm this room to a level that was adequate for John. Clearly, there was just one solution to this problem. Just one way to get them through this dreadful night. He checked the door and the window, took off his boots and then flopped down next to John, crawling underneath the blankets with him, sandwiching him between him and the fireplace. He felt John squirm away from him, weakly. "What -"  
"Stay still, John. We're both cold. Admit it. It's perfect."  
John still steered away from his touch as well as he could. "I'm not -"  
"Neither am I. But I'm cold, too. It's the perfect arrangement. And besides, I've just been inside your shoulder. I do think a bit of post-surgery cuddling is in order."  
He felt more than heard John chuckle, and then felt his friend relax a little. John turned on his good side, facing the fire, and Sherlock carefully draped the blankets and an arm around his shivering friend. The warmth felt good, and he smelled John's hair, salty and a little grimy after a day of hiking. Slowly, John relaxed in his arms, their bodies arriving at a more comfortable configuration. It felt nice to be, just for once, the one protecting John. Unthinking, he placed a kiss in his friend's hair. John's voice gave him a start.  
"Did you just kiss me?"  
"...yes."  
"Why?"  
"I - I thought you were asleep."  
"Do you always kiss me when I'm asleep?"  
"Of course not!"  
"Then why now?"  
"I don't know."  
John seemed to be thinking, and Sherlock kept very still. He knew better than to interrupt what was going on in John's slow, but surprisingly thorough mind. Finally, John spoke again. "'s okay." And he seemed to settle deeper in Sherlock's embrace, sinking into a nest of blankets, mattresses, and finally, sleep.


	4. Blood and Barley Cookies

Sherlock woke to the bleak light of morning seeping into the hut. He was instantly aware of the warm body next to him. John had turned around during the night, his injured shoulder finding a nook in the nest of blankets, and his head more than half buried underneath the blankets. Sherlock felt John's breath steady against his chest, his head tucked underneath Sherlock's chin. Slightly damp hair bristled against his throat. Sherlock didn't dare to move and felt more than inclined to hold his breath. He still held him in a tight embrace, maybe even tighter than last night, his hand resting lightly on John's back. The bare skin felt very hot against his palm, and he realized John must still be feverish. But alive. And that was all that mattered. For a while, he listened to John's breathing, slow and steady, just once catching, missing a few cycles, then coming back with a sigh. He marvelled at the sensation, this complicated organism next to him, another human being, trusting him enough to sleep next to him, the heartbeat and breathing and the little twitches indicating dreaming. He felt like kissing that head again, that head that held the brain that might not be as brilliant as his, but this was John's, and he - he couldn't put a label on what he felt for his friend, but he knew it was fragile, all of it, John, this situation, what someone felt or didn't feel. So he held him close, didn't move, and tried to memorize all of this for later analysis.

Later, he regretfully disentangled himself, and after a trip to the outhouse, stoked the fire again and found some tough barley cookies they could eat for breakfast, maybe even spiced up with trail mix. The noise woke John, who had slept through most of this in a heap of blankets.  
"Good morning!"  
"'morning."  
"How's the shoulder?"  
"Hurts. Better. Hurts." John grimaced and massaged his bandaged arm.  
With a flourish, Sherlock presented a bowl of crumbled barley cookie with trail mix and reconstituted milk to his friend. "Breakfast!"  
Sceptically, John took the bowl and set it down on his lap, inspecting the contents for a long moment before addressing Sherlock: "You're awfully cheerful this morning."  
Sherlock crunched on his own breakfast and didn't reply. When he took another bite without answering, John said: "Thank you."  
"You haven't even tried it yet."  
"I didn't mean this - cereal."  
"Oh."  
"And you know that."  
"Yes." Another spoonful prevented Sherlock from saying anything else.  
"I thought I'd freeze to death."  
"I thought it possible, yes."  
"I'm still not gay."  
"Neither am I."

The two men looked at each other quizzically across a nest of blankets and a rough table. Sherlock set his bowl down and placed the spoon carefully next to it. Then, he stapled his fingers, indicating a Speech Of Some Significance, and said: "It's nothing special, you know. It's primeval. Just two mammals sharing a den. Sharing body warmth and comfort, establishing a pack. I'm sure that's what our progenitors did for millions of years. Without being gay, necessarily. We put boundaries on our affection, deciding it must not transcend gender barriers and must always result in sex. Isn't that awfully dull?"  
"I wouldn't call sex dull", John started, "But I do see your point. At least I think so."  
Both finished their breakfast in silence. John managed to get up and clean himself up without Sherlock's help, and then settled again into his pile of blankets next to the fireplace. Sherlock left on his quest for mobile reception, and John slept fitfully and feverish, waking up often to feed the fire. When his friend came back, stomping on the doorstep to rid himself of snow, John felt relieved. 

"Sherlock?"  
No response. John's blood turned to ice, and suddenly, his head swam. Sherlock would announce himself, definitely. The footsteps on the porch outside, they were heavier, most definitely not Sherlock's. It took some effort, but he managed to untangle himself from the mess of blankets and move away from the bed, into the shadow behind the fireplace.  
"Not Sherlock, no."  
An unfamiliar voice. Wheezing, gasping between words. John remembered they had never heard Carlyle speak. He looked for his gun and realized it must still be in his jacket. The jacket Sherlock, always neat when least expected, had taken into the vestibule together with their backpacks. And that was exactly where the voice had come from. "Your friend, he was very surprised. When he saw me. Hadn't expected me to survive. Didn't survive that. Not long. Screamed, did he. When I threw him. Off the cliff. Down the waterfall. Pretty, that."  
John closed his eyes, doubled over. Sherlock. Please, no. Dark walls closed in, his vision faltered. Cold sweat. He forced himself to react, to do something, anything. Breathe, breathe through the pain, condense it and swallow it, deal with this later. For now, fight. Melting into the deep shadows behind the fireplace, his left arm bound awkwardly to his chest, he felt more than he looked for something he could use as a weapon. His good hand found a poker, a solid, black piece of metal, more like a club made from cast iron. Wonderfully solid. Footsteps, this time inside the main room. His hand was slick with sweat, and he tightened his grip around the poker until it dug into his flesh.  
"You found my little surprise. Hurt, did it."  
John found a calm he thought he had left behind in the war, a sudden clarity. With one lunge, he was within reach, he swung the poker and heard the satisfying crunch when it hit home. Carlyle fell like a struck bull. John didn't wait for Carlyle to make another move, he brought the poker down once more, on the man's temple, and heard bone crack. Carlyle emitted a stifled cry, and bright red blood bubbled up through his mouth and nose. Seemed like John's bullet had finally hit home. The man groped for John, swung one massive arm at him, and John dodged with a dexterity he didn't think he'd have in him, realized he had somehow found the skinning knife Sherlock (oh, please, don't let Sherlock be dead!) had used to operate on him earlier. He brought it down in one swift motion and cut the larger man's neck. He had a moment to admire the satisfyingly vivid spurt of blood before his knees buckled and he collapsed.

That was how Sherlock found him. Apparently, he'd given him quite a scare, or so Sherlock told him later, all the blood. The first thing he'd seen upon coming back (after the open door tipped him off that something was very wrong) had been that blood and John's body, and only then had he noticed Carlyle's body and identified it as the source of all that blood. It had taken him several seconds to understand what had happened, and that was testimony enough to the extend of the shock Sherlock had been in, seeing all this.  
John wasn't worse for wear and conveniently woke up only after Sherlock had dragged Carlyle and the ruined bedding into the bedroom farthest from them both, which he had then boarded shut with building material scavenged from the attic. Sherlock thought this might be a bit extreme, considering the man's throat was cut ear to ear, but he did it anyway. Then, he gathered fresh bedding for John and repaired his bed. Sherlock's concern mirrored John's.  
"Hey."  
"Hey."  
"Thought you were dead."  
"Likewise."

They smiled at each other, and even though John didn't have to, it was all painfully apparent anyway, he shared his story with Sherlock, and Sherlock shared his. They concluded Carlyle had regained consciousness, underlining the need for a proper exam before pronouncing someone, and they raised their mugs (water, they were out of tea) to that. Sherlock had had an uneventful day hiking up to find mobile reception, and had indeed reached a police station in Sweden.

"Do you think you can stand another night or two here?"  
"If I have to, yes."  
"They'll be here tomorrow afternoon on a snow cat. Not sure if we can leave that day, not much daylight here in winter. But I think that'll be fun. The snow cat."

This time, John did have a cup of Ramen noodles for dinner, and they were as abominable and strangely appetizing as he had feared they would be. Sherlock built the fire for the night, and prepared to settle on the cot when John said: "I wouldn't mind."  
"Mind what?"  
"You, here. Whatever this is. Do you?"  
"Frankly, I wouldn't, no."  
"And it is cold. And positively primeval, compared to London. And I killed a man today. And I thought you were dead, you know. Not that I believed him. That asshole."  
All that was reason enough, and Sherlock slipped underneath the blankets. The warmth felt luxurious after a day out in the mountains, he had to admit he'd dreaded sleeping on the cot, though he had made that decision on his long hike today. The sudden warmth made him shiver in earnest.  
This time, John settled against him exactly the way he'd woken up this morning, his head against Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock tucking John's head underneath his chin. John let out an exhausted sigh. Sherlock's hand moved up to the nape of John's neck, holding him close, his fingertips touching his hair. Keeping him safe. And he thought whatever this was, it wasn't bad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Rago National Park (in Norway) because I love that place and have always wanted to stay in that cabin.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Why You Should Always Check For a Pulse II (added a few chapters of, well, Norway)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027602) by [miasmatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix)




End file.
